The Dos and Don'ts of Loving Sakusa Kiyoomi [2/2 | 15,075 | T]
by liliapocalypse
When Sakusa Kiyoomi arrives at Osaka all prickly and brooding, MSBY takes it upon themselves to bring him into the fold with a competition. The rules are simple:
· The person who makes Sakusa smile or laugh the most that day gets a point.
· Anyone who makes Sakusa irritated, annoyed, or angry gets a deduction.
Naturally, Atsumu ends up last with a four-week record of negative scores. And maybe less naturally, Atsumu begins an investigation on how to become The Best Teammate™ Sakusa Kiyoomi has ever had.
Except… do teammates feel sad over repeatedly losing in a silly locker room competition? And do teammates really care that much about making Sakusa smile?
“Mm, not stuff his pockets with the drug everyone thinks makes you gay right before a press conference? Maybe!” Ilya’s voice chimed happily from the phone.
“You wanna tell us why you’re so acquainted with Rush that you can identify it in 780p, Ilya?” Kip asked.
“…I have so much leather to deodorize, Kip Grady. So many sports cars, you know.”
--
Kip can't believe no one else can tell how outrageously gay Ilya Rozanov is, but he's not complaining, he's happy to have someone else to talk to at all the hockey functions.
Or: Perfect gaydar haver Ilya Rozanov finally gets a taste of his own medicine. A series of looks into Kip and Ilya's friendship, starting after the cottage.
Notes: I love a fic where Ilya's queerness is explored in any way at all, and this is SUCH a fun way to show it. Scott and Shane aren't very culturally queer, while Kip is - and like recognizes like. Their growing friendship is so so so fun to see. Catty Ilya is thee best. Also Kip & Shane friendship is my new obsession thank you
He’d never have recognized her and Draco had seen her face in his dreams nearly every night since his aunt nearly tortured her to death in their ballroom.
It wasn’t the Glamour, they’d removed that straightaway, which was a pity, because he would have liked to examine the magic more carefully. One of his smallest, mildest, most wholesome regrets was that he’d never had a chance to study at Beauxbatons when he was young enough for their approach to have influenced his own casting; it was not so much a certain panache associated with the way they flicked their wands as a fundamental assumption that magic required beauty and well-done magic was undergirded with a deep and sustaining connection to the world’s terrible loveliness.
Hogwarts offered nothing like that and the pudding was typically uninspiring.
(Yes, Draco had always liked a good lemon soufflé and île flottante.)
Hermione Granger lay motionless in a bed, pale, the wild curls he remembered tied back away from her face. He’d thought for a moment that someone, maybe Donna Numina Gaetana in Padua, had cut them all off, the way he’d read Muggles had used to do for those suffering with fevers before they’d discovered germ theory, though the Healer would have used the hair in any numbers of potions and charms to try and restore Hermione to her senses. Her hands, which he recalled gesturing, holding a wand, reaching out across the parquet floor of the ballroom, lay palm down on either side of her, in a position no healthy sleeping witch would ever take. Her eyes were closed. If he raised her lids to examine her, he knew there would be nothing in her gaze that reflected her animated self, nor her quiescent, banked power.
Her eyes were hazel. He knew that, though he might pretend he didn’t. He’d known it since they’d turned fourteen, before the Yule Ball, before the Snatchers brought her to his house, before she’d glanced at him across the Great Hall of Hogwarts, the battle over, his mother trembling beside him.
If Neville hadn’t told him, he would have taken her falsified chart as truth. He would have shaken his head a little in the general frustration at the loss of an ordinary witch, one he’d assumed a member of Hufflepuff, as he’d noticed nothing about her that was memorable. It would never have occurred to him to question the notation Incurable, Level 3, confirmata per leporem. Muggles called it a vegetative state, which was perhaps partly why Neville, a gifted Herbologist, was so closely involved.
It was also because he’d been in love with Hermione since The Battle of Hogwarts, a patient, unrequited love that he didn’t wear on his sleeve as much as carry as a talisman. His was a love which did not seek possession, most unfamiliar to Draco, as neither the Black nor Malfoy line was known for such unworldliness. He hadn’t spoken of Hermione often, but what little he had said and the way he’d said it had made Draco aware of his affection, if not its depth and breadth.
That he’d learned when Neville brought him to Hermione’s bedside. When he’d picked up one of her hands in his, very gently, and had murmured a spell under his breath, a very old blessing of the North Draco had never heard uttered aloud before.
“You’ll help her,” Neville said.
If Draco had said it, about someone he cared about as much as Neville cared about Hermione, it would have been a threat, a binding. Neville was making a promise, to himself and to Hermione, and only offered Draco an encouragement, his faith compleat.
“You needn’t. You don’t like to fail. You won’t start now,” Neville replied.
“She’s been seen by the finest specialists in the world. My superiors. You—and Potter too—you have to understand how little I have to offer her,” Draco said.
Neville smiled.
“Humility at this late stage, will wonders never cease!”
“Neville, I’m serious,” Draco said.
“So am I. You’ve got something those specialists haven’t got, something I think is critical to curing Hermione,” Neville said.
“Salazar help me if this has something to do with the bloody Sorting Hat and some overwrought, badly scanned verse,” Draco muttered.
“Not directly,” Neville said. “Hermione also hates the Sorting Hat. That’s part of it—the history you share, the fact that you were educated by the same witches and wizards, used the same library—you’ll be better able than those specialists to understand what she did and how, how it might have gone wrong. And Harry and I believe what happened to her during the war is intrinsic to the injury—”
“What happened to her?”
“Bellatrix torturing her. You were there. We think that’s playing a role in her current state,” Neville said.
“It’s my fault, somehow?” Draco asked.
“No, not at all. We think there’s latent Dark magic involved, Black family magic you can access as a close family member. Hermione collapsed shortly after she finished her last attempt at reversing the memory charms on her parents. They survived, but they still don’t really know her. She hasn’t woken since. The specialists believe, most of them, that she irreversibly depleted her magical core. Harry thinks she’s fallen into an enchanted sleep,” Neville explained.
“What do you think?”
“I think she’s trapped. Locked in. And I think you’ll be able to figure out how to set her free,” Neville said.
“And how will I do that?” Draco asked, any snideness in the inquiry overwhelmed by bafflement.
“Ah, mate, if I knew, I wouldn’t have come to you, yeah? I’d have taken care of Hermione myself,” Neville said. “But there is one thing that might help.”
“What’s that?”
“She kept a journal,” Neville said.
“Of course she did,” Draco said. “Hand it over and I’ll start reading—”
“I haven’t got it,” Neville said. There was a long pause, for the realization and the grudging acceptance.
“Potter’s got it. I’ve got to talk to the bloody Boy Who Lived and abase myself, even though you’re asking for my assistance. I’m the one doing the favor—”
“It’s not a favor. He’s calling in his life-debt,” Neville said, his expression darkening. “He shouldn’t have to though. You ought to be glad to be asked. Because it’s Hermione.”
“Fine. Tell Potter I’ll meet him. Wherever he wants. Whenever he wants. He’ll like that, won’t he?” Draco said.
“It’ll make things easier. This wasn’t his idea,” Neville said. It was note-worthy that Neville didn’t try to defend Potter. And that Neville wasn’t in possession of Hermione’s journal. Journals, if Draco were to make an educated guess, keeping in mind the voluminous essays she used to turn in to Potions and Arithmancy.
It's three o'clock in the afternoon and Fadel is worried. Style was supposed to be here at noon. Fadel has sent him a few text messages asking him where he is and if he's okay, but he's been left on read, and when he calls his phone, it goes straight to voicemail.
The phone is shut off.
And that isn't like Style at all.
He always has his phone on in case of work emergencies and he always answers Fadel. He's never even ignored a text before.
And Fadel can't help but recognize the pattern here…that this has happened to him before. This…this scenario is familiar….it feels like the last time…
army!eddie/babysitter/buck au has arrived y’all!! this is my baby, my absolute pride and joy, and i’m so happy to finally share with y’all 🥹 hope you enjoy <33
rated: e | chapter 1/10 | words: 5.7k | read on ao3
summary:
“Does this story have a point?” Eddie questioned, Lena narrowing her eyes at him; it would’ve felt threatening had he not known she was more bark than bite.
“This guy, my sort of friend—what if he could watch Chris for you?”
Eddie furrowed his brows together. “You want me to leave my kid who’s halfway across the country with some—stranger?” Was she out of her damn mind?
“It beats having him sent home to your parents, right?”
Well, she had a point there.
Eddie shook his head, overwhelmed with his thoughts.
“Look, I appreciate it Bosko, but I just—I don’t know. This is my kid we’re talking about.”
“I know that, and I know how much you love him. Hell, you’ve sent me ten plus emails when I was watching him for you.”
Eddie looked to where there was a line coming out of the office, his other teammates no doubt having several emergency questions of their own. He turned to Lena, giving his full attention.
“Alright, tell me about this friend of yours.”
—or—
The one where Eddie’s in the army, Shannon gives up her rights to Chris, and Eddie needs a babysitter. Good thing Lena knows Buck, the guy having nothing better to do than help babysit until Eddie gets back. Eddie would come home, and he would leave; it wasn’t like they were going to build some lifetime friendship or anything.
**if you wanna be tagged in chapter updates lmk, otherwise i’ll just tag everyone again once it’s finished posting <33**
tagging squad below, lmk if you wanna be added or removed <3
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Jake Sully had everything he could have ever wanted in life. He had achieved what his definition of “happiness” was. He defeated the sky people, was named Olo'eyktan; trusted to lead the Omatikaya, he has a beautiful mate and kids, so what went wrong? In a blink of an eye he lost it all, his mate, his love, the reason he woke up in the morning, the reason Jake was who he was, was now gone. How would he ever recover?
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: character death, gore, battle scenes, reader has thalassophobia (fear of deep water, deep dark water.), angst, forced/arranged marriage, Jake being lowkey mean and uncaring to reader, no use of ‘y/n’, reader is trying their best but doesn’t take much shit after a while. More warnings to be added as we go on.
